


All I Want Is to Have My Peace of Mind

by Eugara



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bottom Dean, Established Relationship, Humor, M/M, Top Sam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-22
Updated: 2013-11-22
Packaged: 2018-01-02 09:22:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1055115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eugara/pseuds/Eugara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Season 9.  Dean thinks Kevin might know about him and Sam.  Well, he's not certain, but he's pretty sure.  Really pretty sure.  At least, he <em>thinks</em> he is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All I Want Is to Have My Peace of Mind

Kevin might know.

Dean thinks that maybe Kevin might know about them, but he can’t tell for sure and it’s freaking him out a little bit. It isn’t anything he’s done or said specifically, but sometimes the kid gives him this _look_. It’s like a ‘Hey man, I accept you’ kind of look and it’s starting to piss Dean off. He doesn’t seem to be doing it on purpose, and Dean figures that it’s technically possible that it’s just a regular look. More of a ‘Thanks for letting me live in your magic bunker’ look, or even just a ‘Could you pass me that book behind you? I’m busy doing nerdy translating shit’ look, but he can’t be certain. There hasn’t been anything especially incest-y about it that Dean can make out, but it’s still giving him indigestion, and Dean’s been a hunter for long enough to learn how to trust his instincts. 

Although to be fair, the indigestion might just be from Sam’s recent cooking. He’s been doing a lot better since his secret angelic enema, and is apparently feeling healthy, and guilty, enough about Dean handling all the chores to take over for a couple nights a week. This is, of course, directly against Dean’s insistence (and slightly embarrassing begging) to the contrary. Dean’s brother is a man of many talents, he can shoot the face out of a quarter at twenty yards and has an impressive knack for dead languages, but anything involving food preparation just isn’t one of them. He loves Sam, he really does, but the dude could burn cereal. Dean’s gone out of his way to make it very clear that he doesn’t actually _mind_ doing the cooking, but Sam keeps going off on these, “You shouldn’t have to look after four people by yourself,” rants, so he’s dropped it and accepted that his stomach would just have to take a couple for the team. If Sam’s noticed the recent surge in take-out nights, he hasn’t said anything.

It isn’t even really _four_ people anyway, Crowley doesn’t need food, and any ‘looking after’ mostly involves making sure that his chain is still unbroken and that there aren’t any pointy objects within psycho-Hannibal’s reach. Bobby had said that thing about Crowley and a certain Scotch a few years back, and Sam had gotten embarrassingly gung-ho about the idea of leaving a bottle just outside the Devil’s Trap, in hopes of tempting him to trade some demon names for a glass or two, but Dean figures it would just get smashed somehow and he really doesn’t want to waste the liquor. The Men of Letters’ collection of spirits is freaking epic, and Dean has no idea how much money it would cost to replace a bottle if a soldier fell during one of Crowley’s demonic tantrums. 

But Sam’s culinary disasters and Dean’s borderline alcoholism aside, Kevin’s overly understanding and all too frequent glances are starting to raise his hackles. He’s started to make sure that Kevin’s already gone to bed on the nights that he plans on slipping into Sam’s room or secreting Sam into his, and it’s getting irritating. And exhausting. Not to mention that he’s pretty sure Sam can tell what he’s doing and finds it hilarious. Dean likes to think he’s being admirably subtle about the whole thing, but Sam’s got a friggin’ ginormo brain to go along with the rest of his gigantor body, and Dean’s never been that good at subtle anyway. He’s also begun stealthily scoping through Kevin’s stuff for any hint of the _Supernatural_ books. Sam had told him that Chuck left a lot of shit out, and if ‘Carver Edlund’ thought the demon blood was a little too risqué for wholesome family entertainment, then he probably chose to forgo the incest as well, but if creepy internet fangirls keep arriving at the same conclusion, it’s always possible that their little genius prophet could too. 

Dean’s brought it up to Sam a couple of times, but he’s refusing to be any help at all, and Dean’s starting to feel like maybe he’s losing his mind. The _First Incident_ , as Dean likes to call it, had really only started a few weeks ago. Dean had thrown on his awesome robe and slipped into the library for a nightcap, leaving Sam sated and unconscious in his bed behind him, only to run into a still-awake Kevin frantically poring over the angel tablet. The kid looked wrecked, so Dean had plucked the stone out of his hands and replaced it with a glass of twenty-year-old single malt. Company was always less pathetic than drinking alone, and Kevin looked like he deserved a break. Dean figured he might even be able to teach the kid a thing or two about proper taste. 

Kevin had been on edge, a little manic ever since Crowley had mentioned his mom, and Dean felt for him. There were only a few people who could honestly say that they understood what he was going through, and Dean was one of them. The other was currently sleeping off the effects of some angel-assisted demonicide (and a pretty vigorous bout of ‘yay, we’re not dead’ sex) down the hall. Hey, they could start a club. A ‘Demons Killed My Mom and Now I Deal With Monsters and Fucking Magic All Day Long’ club. Dean had reminded himself not to bring the idea up when Sam was around because the little bitch would probably want to actually do something about it, claiming it would be a “healthy environment for Kevin to relate to” or some equally girly shit. Nope, Dean was planning on teaching Kevin how to handle his problems like a man. With whiskey and grunted platitudes.

The kid had been nursing his drink for the last minute or so, eyes red from lack of sleep and hair lank from lack of showering, swirling around the amber liquid in his glass more than actually tasting it, so Dean had just started talking. He’d said something about, “knowing what it was like to lose family,” and, “having to play the hand you’re dealt,” and he’s pretty sure he said something along the lines of, “understanding what you’re fighting for”. He’d meant it in a ‘saving people, family business’ kind of way, but Kevin had actually looked up at him for the first time since Dean had sat down.  

He’d looked up and stared square into Dean’s eyes and said, “You’re lucky to have someone like that. It’s good that you and Sam have each other.”  

…And it was a little weird, but Dean hadn’t really thought there was anything too peculiar about it in the moment. The kid’s statement was a little schmaltzy for his tastes, but it was firmly within the realm of acceptable brother relations. He’d grunted an assent and they’d spent the next few minutes in silent camaraderie. 

But then Kevin had kept shooting him these little understanding glances. At first Dean thought he’d maybe wanted to bring something up, but was too gun shy to do so—but he’d kept up with the fucking Chaplin routine, apparently content to sit there in complete silence and just give him these annoying looks. Dean had eventually lifted a questioning eyebrow, but Kevin just pleasantly smiled at him until Dean had finished his whiskey and left him to it with a parting pat on the shoulder.

It had bugged him all the way back to his bedroom, and he’d been thankful to hear Sam’s _resting, but not actually asleep_ breathing pattern once he’d gotten inside. He’d sat down on the open end of his bed and poked Sam in the shoulder until he’d made an annoyed noise. “Hey, uh, you think Kevin knows?”

Sam just smushed his face further into Dean’s pillow and grumbled some sort of whiny complaint about being asleep (which was dumb, ‘cause he wasn’t) before saying, “Do I think Kevin knows what?” 

“About us.”

Sam had actually lifted himself onto an elbow for that one, clumsily swiping the hair out of his face and fixing Dean with a bleary stare. His eyes had looked almost completely gray without any light in the room. “Did he say something to you?”

“Nah, not exactly.” Dean shrugged his robe off without standing and tossed it over the hook by his door. Then he’d lifted the covers to scoot in beside Sam, but changed his mind and dropped them again before thumping both hands onto his thighs. “I mean— We’re subtle, right? No one knows.” He’d twitched his shoulders a couple times, feeling antsy all of a sudden. “Bobby didn’t know.”

Dean can’t remember Sam’s exact reply, but he was fairly certain it had been snarky and disagreeable. He thinks it was something along the lines of, “Well, he probably knows now”. Dean knows for sure that it had _something_ to do with Bobby because he’d been pretty keyed up afterwards and he’d freaked out for a couple days about how much dead people could possibly see from Heaven. In that moment though, he’s sure he’d shot some sort of comeback at Sam (probably hilarious) before grudgingly adding, “No. Kevin didn’t actually _say_ anything. He’s just been looking at me weird.”

Sam had sighed and sat up against the headboard. “If he hasn’t said anything, Dean, then he probably doesn’t know.” He tossed him a condescending stare. “I don’t know about you, but I’m pretty sure that if Kevin found out his roommates were having incestuous sex, he’d be outta here.”

Dean had given a non-committal grunt and held Sam’s gaze for a while. He always liked the way his brother looked when he was sleepy. Not tired or exhausted; Sam after a thirty-six hour hunt through the woods was a bitchy, complainy nightmare, and Sam completely pale and drained from the effects of the trials or the toll of demon blood was something Dean never needed to see again. But a sleepy, content, wrapped in a blanket and knowing he was gonna get a full eight hours Sammy was one of Dean’s favorite versions. He'd pressed a thumb against Sam’s forehead to smooth out the crinkles between his brows and finally dropped the issue. “Yeah, okay.” He’d slipped under the covers then, scooping his little brother against him and resting his face against the back of Sam’s neck. “His eggs are probably just all scrambled from the tablet or something.” He spat a few strands of Sam’s stupidly long hair out of his mouth. “Maybe he needs glasses. Maybe that’s what the dopey eyeballing is all about.”

Sam had nodded and snuggled into his pillow, then chuckled. “Or, maybe he knows.” He shifted a few more times before settling in, and sleepily mumbled, “S’pose anything’s possible.”

Sam had fallen under almost instantly, like he usually did once Dean had finally got his arms around him, but even though he had probably been joking, or sleep-addled, or _brain_ -addled (which was a chronic condition that Dean was pretty sure Sam had suffered from for most of his life), his words had zinged straight through to Dean’s deepest paranoid nightmares. He’d lain awake the entire night after that, worrying, all because his stupid bitch brother couldn’t keep his stupid bitch mouth shut. 

Which brings Dean right back to Sam continuing to be an unhelpful asshole. He’s mentioned it a few times since then, but Sam blatantly refuses to see that anything’s up.  Probably because him and Kevin have formed some sort of unshakeable Geek Research Team. Sam’s usually hovering around the kid all the time now, asking if he needs any other books or files or papers. He’s even run back to his bedroom a couple of times to pull out some ancient textbook that he thinks that Kevin might find helpful.  Hell, he’s probably two steps away from asking him if he wants some hot cocoa or a foot rub. Dean bets the whole thing was Sam’s idea anyway. He probably told Kevin to look at him weird all the time because he knew it would piss him off. Except, Sam is suffering too. He’s made it very clear that Dean’s neurotic obsessing is freaking him out and he keeps making these little, frustrated huffs every time Kevin walks through a door and Dean suddenly jumps halfway across the room. 

The thing is, it wouldn’t even be so bad if Dean didn’t have to keep _policing_ himself. Every time the kid’s around, he has to keep second-guessing everything he says or does to Sam. Every single touch sends him into a paranoid spiral. That thing he just did, do brothers do that? Is a guy allowed to squeeze the back of his younger brother’s neck? He’s pretty sure that’s something an older brother would do, but he can’t be sure. Maybe he’d left his hand there for too long. Or maybe he pulled it away quick enough, but his fingers had lingered on Sam’s collar. What about touching Sam’s hair? He’s fairly certain that ruffling someone’s hair falls squarely into the ‘brother’ category, but what if it wasn’t exactly ruffling? To be clear, it’s not like he romantically threaded his fingers through it or anything. It was just kind of a fond touch. Really, any hair contact (ruffling or otherwise) should fall under the entire ‘hair’ umbrella, shouldn’t it?

Well, whatever the case may be, Dean is making sure to avoid all non-required touching of any kind. Just to be safe.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

  

The _Second Incident_ , which comes along exactly six days later, happens in the Men of Letters’ shower room. Dean is groggily stumbling down the hallway and it’s ridiculously early in the morning—it’s like _nine_ , maybe even earlier—and he’s almost entirely still asleep. Coffee tends to come after shower, but he’s made the walk enough times now that his body’s autopilot usually gets him there without any serious disasters. He yawns and pads through the doorway, only to run into a sweaty, half-naked Sam. He’s standing at the sink, shirtless, with damp hair, and he stinks enough that he probably just came in from a run, but Dean couldn’t give a fuck about any of that because they’re alone and they haven’t had sex in two weeks and it’s _Sam_. They almost never shower together at the bunker (which is a travesty, because there’s a whole shower bank in here, and tiny motel showers can usually only fit one of them comfortably), but Sam tends to get up a few hours before Dean if there’s no hunt and their morning schedules usually don’t sync up, especially if they’ve been sleeping in their own rooms—which Dean’s been jumpy as fuck about lately. Sam typically goes for a run at the ass crack of dawn and picks up breakfast (well, it’s not _real_ breakfast, it’s usually fruit or oatmeal or some equally tasteless mockery of real food) on the way back while Dean is still happily in dreamland, being fed chocolates by a bikini-clad Scarlett Johansen while high-fiving Jimmy Page over a private set list. So, running into his brother in here is rare enough to make it an exciting event.

Sam breaks out into one of his blinding grins when he sees him, all sparkling eyes and deep-cut dimples and shiny teeth, and he opens his mouth to say something hilarious, Dean’s sure. Probably something like, _“Hey man, can’t believe you’re even alive at this hour,”_ or, _“You kind of look like a zombie, dude. Better watch out, I’ve heard there are hunters around here,”_ but Dean’s got him pinned against the sink before he can even get a word out. He presses in along Sam’s ridiculously broad back and grabs the sides of the porcelain to cage him in, before catching Sam’s eye in the mirror. He pitches his voice low enough to almost purr. “Well, hey there.” Dean presses a long, lingering kiss to the nape of Sam’s neck and grinds his morning wood against Sam’s ass. “Come here often?”

Sam’s got them flipped in a flash, twisting within Dean’s arms and pushing him back against the opposite wall, hands braced on either side of Dean’s head. He shoves his lips against Dean’s, slamming the back of Dean’s head against the tile, and attacks his mouth with a ferocity usually reserved for their ‘I’m really pissed at you right now, but you’re still super fucking hot’ sex. Sam’s biting and sucking at Dean’s mouth and jaw, and he stinks like a locker room, but Dean’s sure he’s got some pretty rank morning breath going on right now, and he’s already so far gone that they could be in the middle of a shapeshifter’s lair and he wouldn’t even notice. Sam slides his arms around Dean’s lower back and grips him like a barnacle, wrenching his hips off the wall and into Sam’s. He pants against Dean’s neck, tightens his arms further, and growls into his skin. “I want you.” He shoves them both back, flush against the cool wall. “Now.”

Dean stretches his neck up and coaxes his brother into a deep kiss, before slipping his arms down Sam’s chest. He manages to get free enough from Sam’s crushing embrace to duck his head and lightly run his tongue over one of Sam’s nipples, then the other. Sam lets out a sort of panting whine, and Dean really wants to hear him make that sound again, so he nips at one of the buds in his mouth. Sam makes a sharp gasping noise this time and his biceps twitch and strain against the desire to crush Dean to his chest. Dean lowers himself to his knees, licking a slow line down Sam’s unfairly impressive abs. “I got you, baby.” He squeezes his hands around his brother’s narrow hips and mouths at the tented fabric of Sam’s track pants. He gets another gorgeous moan for his trouble. When he glances up, Sam’s got one arm up against the wall and he’s pressing his face into his elbow. Dean chuckles and guides Sam’s hips around. He presses him back until his ass is supported by the tile and they’ve switched positions again, then tongues at Sam’s polyester-covered hard-on one more time and drawls, “Don’t you worry ‘bout a thing, darlin’.”  

Sam groans at the nickname and thunks the back of his head against the wall. “Please, Dean. You gotta—” He shifts his hips up and rubs his shoulders over the tile like a cat in heat. Then there’s that seductive whine again. “Come on, man.”

Dean laughs under his breath. His brother begs so beautifully that he can’t do anything but comply. He slips his fingers under Sam’s waistband and pulls—teasingly, _excruciatingly_ slowly. “I’m gonna take care of you, Sammy.” He frees his brother’s cock and breathes over the heated skin. “Just you wait.” He presses a slow kiss to Sam’s hipbone and slides the rest of the material down his legs.

Sam’s eyes are screwed shut now and he’s planted his palms on either side of his own head, so that he can jam his temple into his forearm. He pleads, _begs_ , “C’mon, Dean,” into the skin of his own arm, and once Dean relents and licks a stripe up the underside of his cock, Sam lets out a whimpered, “Yeah.” He swallows with an audible click and groans again. “Just like that, Dean, yeah.”

Dean finally gets a hand around the base of his brother’s cock and opens his lips around the head. He gently sucks the tip into his mouth, just barely pulling it into the wet ring inside his lips, and swirls his tongue around the slit. Above him, Sam’s making a lot of “gah” noises and curling his fingers into the wall. Dean slowly circles his tongue one more time, before taking Sam most of the way in and sucking down hard. Sam moans, and Dean’s own dick aches in reply. He’s drinking Sam down, taking long, torturous pulls of his cock and curving his hand around what isn’t currently in his mouth. By now, Sam’s full sentences have regressed into little, breathy pants of his name, over and over.  

God, he’s missed this. Two fucking weeks man. Dean doesn’t care if Kevin does know. Hell, a fucking school marching band _and_ his dad could walk in right now, but he’s not going that long with only his right hand ever again. Not if he doesn’t have to. 

Dean speeds up and sucks Sam some more, bobbing his head back and forth and twisting his hand at the base of Sam’s dick. He continues for a few more strokes, before hollowing his cheeks and increasing the suction. He pulls his head back and sucks hard, running his tongue along the underside of Sam’s cock…then relaxes his throat and takes him down all the way. Sam makes a strangled noise and thumps both of his fists against the tile. Dean pushes forward, until his face is flush against his brother’s pelvis and he can feel Sam in the back of his throat. His eyes are watering, but he breathes through his nose and reaches a hand up to fondle Sam’s balls. Sam is still making little, strangled noises and his hand is now halfway between the wall and Dean’s face, fingers twitching like they’re not quite sure where they want to be. Dean squeezes and rolls his fingers, until he feels Sam’s balls tighten in his hand. He swallows once, twice, and Sam’s done. He gasps and gets out a single, “ _Dean_ ,” before he’s coming down Dean’s throat with another soft moan.

Dean swallows and gently pulls off of Sam’s spit-slick dick. He wipes his mouth on the sleeve of his robe and pushes himself to his feet, knees creaking a little. Cold, hard tile is not the most forgiving place to kneel for any stretch of time. Dean grins and presses a closed-mouth kiss to his younger brother’s lips, then drawls, “See, sweetheart? Told you I was gonna take care of you.” He’s still _achingly_ hard, but teasing Sam is pretty much always the number one priority.

Sam’s still breathing pretty heavily, but he leans down to pull his pants back up his stupidly long legs. He reaches an arm around Dean’s waist and thumbs at his hip, but makes a face at the nickname. “You have a fetish, dude.”

Dean laughs and places a hand on the side of Sam’s face, before looming into his space. He winks and clicks his tongue. “I’ve got quite a few.” 

He’s moments away from getting his other hand on Sam’s ass, when he hears the horrifying patter of footsteps down the hall. He’s got three seconds to jerk himself away from his brother’s face and lean a hand against the wall before Kevin walks in, towel wrapped around his waist and t-shirt clutched in his hand.

Kevin startles a bit, obviously not expecting anyone else, but recovers quickly. He smiles and tilts his head in greeting. “Oh, hey guys.” He gestures at the showers. “You, um—” He twitches his hand again in a silent question.

Dean sucks in a hard breath. “Nope. Just, uh—” He shoots a glance to Sam, who appears to be infuriatingly pleased, smiling at Kevin like he didn’t have his dick down his older brother’s throat a few seconds ago. “Just talking to Sam here.” There’s no way in hell that Dean would be able to explain away his painfully throbbing erection if he had to strip down for a shower, but thankfully, his robe is loose and low enough to hide any possible awkwardness. “So, uh—it’s a,” he breaks off to clear his throat and push himself away from the wall. “It’s a wendigo most likely.” He slips his hands into his pockets and heads toward the door. “I’ll make sure to get right on it.”

Sam tosses him a completely innocent smile. “Sounds good, Dean.” He nods as Dean starts heading out. “You do that.” Sam thumps Kevin on the shoulder with one of his giant paws, then heads toward one of the stalls. There’s no way anyone would believe that Sam isn’t in there to shower. He stinks, and it’s very obvious that he just got back from some form of rigorous exercise. Actually, now that Dean thinks about it, the sweaty gym smell is probably the only thing that’s disguising what they were actually doing. His own voice is a little more gravelly than usual, but he figures Kevin’s more likely to attribute it to morning disuse rather than deep throating.  …Unless that’s _exactly_ what Kevin thinks. Dean shoots him a suspicious glance, and the kid gives him another one of his accepting smiles. Dean returns the gesture with a tight-lipped one of his own before heading out the door and down to the kitchen. He guesses it’s going to have to be coffee first today. Swear to god, Sam better make this up to him later or he’s going to hide his precious laptop under a pile of Dean’s dirty laundry. He scrubs a hand across his lips. Maybe if he tries hard enough, he can will his erection away before either of them finishes showering. He figures if worst comes to worst, he can always just shove one of the eight hundred page encyclopedias onto his lap.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

The rest of the day is…frustrating to say the least. He spends the morning valiantly fighting off a headache and a painfully wicked case of blue balls, only to find out that they’re pretty much entirely out of food. He decides to forgo the shower and just throws some clothes on before he heads down to the local supermarket, but by the time he gets back, Kevin is hard at work on the translating and Sam is weirdly adamant about trying the scotch thing again. He keeps needling Dean until he finally gives in and heads down to the dungeon, bottle in hand. Nothing actually ends up getting shattered, but Crowley laughs in his face, calls him a “git”, and manages to throw a crayon at his head. So, all in all, it’s a complete fucking waste of time. Dean’s pissed and he’s horny and he’s still aggravatingly uncertain if Kevin’s aware that he’s secretly fucking his brother. He mostly wants to curl up and watch some TV, but he’s deliberately trying to stay away from Sam and stuff that reminds him of Sam, so chilling in his brother’s bedroom for a few hours isn’t really an option. He ends up down at the shooting range, blasting lead into imaginary Hans Grubers for the rest of the day.

Thankfully, he does manage to get Sam alone in his room later that night. And everything’s going swimmingly…right up until the _Third Incident_ happens. Kevin’s off doing god-knows-what in his own bedroom, and no pressing hunts have been brought to his attention, so Dean’s finally feeling pretty good about everything. He’s lying back on his bed with Sam’s comfortable weight pressing him down into his amazing mattress and they’re making out like teenagers. He’s got a hand tangled in his brother’s hair and Sam’s sucking on his tongue like a three dollar whore when he hears a knock at the door. He freezes instantly, rigid as a statue, with a hand clamped over his brother’s mouth. Sam’s staying silent (thank god) but Dean can see him rolling his eyes over the ridge of his own fingers.

Kevin lightly knocks again. “Dean?”

Dean manhandles his stupidly heavy brother off of him as quietly as he can while intentionally ignoring Sam’s annoying, put-upon sighs. He silently thanks a deity he’s pretty sure he hates that he’s still fully dressed as he pads to the door. Dean checks once more to make sure that Sam will be out of sight (and _quiet)_  before cracking the door open. “Yeah, what’s up Kev?”

Kevin blinks at him. “Uh, hey, Dean.” He rubs his fingers over one eye. “Is Sam in there with you?”

Dean starts. “What?” He closes the door an inch more and tries to sound as believable as possible. “Why—” He clears his throat and starts again, his voice was a little too high that time. “Why would Sam be in here with me?” He laughs. It’s a very trustworthy laugh. “C’mon, man. That’s just…” He tugs at his ear and makes a face. “You know.” Kevin looks at him like he, in fact, does _not_ know. Dean finishes a little pathetically. “You know. Weird.” 

Kevin looks completely guileless. “Oh, okay,” he shrugs. “I just figured that maybe you guys were talking or something.” He smiles again. “Do you know where he is?”

Dean pulls another face. “What? I dunno man, he could be anywhere. We live in a giant fucking bunker.” He crosses his arms and leans against the doorframe. “I mean, I don’t know where Sam is most of the time. There’s like a billion places he could be.” He trails off a little less enthusiastically, “…Lot of doors y’know?”

Kevin squints at him a little weirdly. “…Okay.”

Dean uncrosses, then crosses his arms again. “What, uh— Whaddya need him for anyway?”

Kevin instantly snaps back into his usual prophet-mode. “Oh. I just needed this book he mentioned. There’s this part I’m going over on the angel tablet right now, and Metatron mentions this certain ingredient. Well, I _think_ he mentions an ingredient. The translation’s a little shaky, and it’s not exactly like it directly correlates to English. But Sam had said something about this book that he’d seen and I think it might be helpful. Only, I can’t find it anywhere in the library. So I’m trying to find out if he knows where it is.”

Dean blinks a couple times. “Uh, yeah Kev. That sounds…yeah.” 

Kevin shoots him one of those goddamn _looks_ again and takes a step back. “Okay, well I’ll go try to find Sam. Sorry to bug you.”

Dean shoots him a half-hearted salute and waits until he’s out of sight before shutting the door. 

Sam pushes himself up off the bed. “Well that was smooth.”

Dean spins around and fixes Sam with a nervous stare. “He knows.”

Sam just sighs again. “Oh my god, Dean, he doesn’t know.” He steps up next to him and brings his thumbs up to rub at the corner of Dean’s eyes. “You look like a lunatic.”

Dean jerks his head and swats Sam’s hands away from his face. “Swear to god, the kid knows.” He opens the door a crack and peers out. “He’s doing it on purpose.”

Sam snorts and grabs his jacket off of Dean’s bed. “I think you’re losing your fucking mind, man.” He reaches a hand over Dean’s head to open the door wider and slips through. “I’m gonna go find that book for Kevin, but I think you should maybe get some sleep.” He gives Dean one of his annoyingly earnest puppy dog looks, then turns and heads out into the hallway.

Dean makes a valiant effort to not check out Sam’s ass as he walks away, then grimaces at Sam’s retreating figure. He does feel like he’s been going a little crazy lately, but it’s Kevin’s damn fault. Dean runs a hand over the back of his neck and flicks his gaze out into the hallway again. Maybe he just needs some air. Or a walk. 

Which is how Dean finds himself staring at his reflection for half an hour. He sighs and plunks his head against the mirror in front of him. He’s currently standing at a sink in one of the six million bedrooms nestled throughout the bunker. He’d gone in to splash some water on his face, but got caught up in staring at himself. The man in the mirror looks _unhinged_. Handsome, to be sure, but mostly he just looks crazy. Dean rubs a hand down his face. His eyes are a little bloodshot and he hasn’t shaved in a while—his stubble’s inching closer to ‘nutso loner’ levels than his typical ‘bad boy’ five o’clock. Any more and he’d be giving Kevin and Sam a run for their money. He laughs a little too loudly. They could be one big creepy-stubble family. Dean shakes his head, then groans and presses his forehead against the cool glass. Okay, maybe Sam’s right. He might actually be losing his fucking mind.

  

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

He’s in his bedroom the next night— _alone—_ field-stripping and cleaning his Colt, when Sam walks in. He barges in like he’s welcome, shuts the door loudly, and spins to face Dean. “Okay, this has to stop.”

Dean lifts his hands up sarcastically. “You have to clean your guns, Sammy. Otherwise, they could jam.”

Sam looks decidedly unamused at the joke. “I’m serious, Dean. Kevin thinks you’re mad at him.”

He reaches down for his bandana and wipes the oil off of his hands. “The fuck are you talking about? I was with him earlier today.” He was, too. The kid was playing some weird-ass video game where you ran around and yelled at giant dragons until they went away. It was actually pretty awesome and Dean had watched him play for a while. He’d even said something about how “that’s not what dragons actually look like” just to see Kevin’s eyes get big. He was planning on telling him about the sword eventually too. People weren’t in awe of Dean enough. That was something he intended to fix.

Sam shakes his head and crosses his giant orangutan arms over his chest. “He thinks you’ve been avoiding him and he can’t figure it out. He wanted to know if he’d done anything wrong.” He practically bolts Dean to the bed with a glare. “You have to stop this. You’re freaking out over something that doesn’t even exist.”

Dean jabs his finger at Sam. “You don’t know that for sure.”

Sam throws his hands up. “Yes! I do!” He makes a motion like he wants to strangle Dean, then gives him one of his most irritating bitchfaces. “I just asked him if—Not like _that!”_  

Dean had almost had a heart attack at Sam’s words. He’s still halfway off the bed from where he had partially thrown himself. He places a hand over his chest and tries to slow his breathing. “Jesus fuck, Sam! You can’t say shit like that.” 

Sam actually looks a little apologetic, which he _deserves_ to be. Jesus. “I didn’t mean like that. It’s not like I’d actually point blank ask him if he thought we were fucking, Dean. C’mon, give me a little credit.” 

Dean’s expression shows him exactly how much credit he thinks Sam deserves.

Sam returns the expression with an equally pissy one of his own. “I just told him that you thought he was giving you weird looks, but he had no idea what I was talking about.” Sam stares at Dean for a long time to make sure his point is getting across, then eventually relaxes his shoulders and moves to sit next to him on the bed. “He’s not secretly hinting at anything, Dean. It’s all in your head.” He reaches up and cups the back of Dean’s head, gently shaking it a little. “Okay, man?”

Dean’s lost most of his bluster, but he’s not entirely ready to let it go yet. He grumbles quietly at a spot just to the left of Sam’s ear. “He keeps smiling at me.” 

Sam laughs and squeezes his hand once before letting it drop from Dean’s head. “It’s called being thankful, Dean. You said some nice stuff to him a little while ago and he was being nice back.” He throws Dean a look. “Like a normal human being.”

Dean licks his lips and flicks his gaze over to meet his brother’s. Sam looks honest, and happy...and like himself. And he’s probably right. Dean reaches up and gently tugs at a lock of Sam’s hair. “Okay, Sammy.” He keeps his hand in place, but moves his thumb to stroke along his brother’s cheek. “Okay.” Sam is smiling and Dean feels more relaxed and content than he has in weeks. If all that crap was really just in his head and Kevin has no idea about anything, then Dean is a happy camper. An ecstatic camper, really. He drags his brother into a celebratory kiss. Huh. Both sitting down like this, they’re almost the same exact height. He pulls Sam’s top lip into his mouth and runs his tongue along the edge. “You know,” he gets out in between sucking kisses, “I’m pretty sure that someone in this room owes me a really epic blowjob.” He backs up and wiggles his eyebrows, leering.

Sam laughs again and moves in to nuzzle at the corner of his jaw. When he speaks, his voice is dark as sin. “How about I do you one better?” He snakes out a hand to wrap around Dean’s belt buckle and uses his long fingers to undo it one-handed. He tugs at the actual belt until Dean brings up a hand to help him, and they both yank it through his belt loops. Then he wraps Dean’s gun up in his bandana and lifts it off of the mattress and onto the floor—and once the bed is finally free of any sharp metal pieces—pushes Dean onto his back and swings a leg over to straddle his hips. Sam leaves a few more kisses along his jaw and chin, then slides his hands under Dean’s shoulders to remove his over shirt. He gets it off, tossing it into the corner and starts to unbutton his own.

While Sam is busy with the enormous sheet that he calls a shirt, Dean tugs at his own, yanking it up and off by the time Sam has finished with his buttons. He rubs his hands over Sam’s hips and up under his t-shirt, sliding over the planes of his stomach and scritching his nails over his brother's lower back. Sam has finally gotten the giant plaid tablecloth off of his shoulders and reaches down to where Dean has rucked up his undershirt. They both manage to get it over Sam’s head and he tosses it in the same vague direction he’d thrown Dean’s.

His brother leans back down to blanket Dean with his body. Sam grips one of his wrists in either hand and pins them to the mattress over his head, then bends until his lips are right next to Dean’s ear and whispers, “You know, Kevin is asleep right now.” 

Dean smirks. “Is that so?” He pushes his wrists up, just enough to test Sam’s grip. 

Sam growls and tightens his hold, then leans down again. His hot breath puffs temptingly against Dean’s skin. “He has no idea what we’re doing in here right now.” He lazily licks over the shell of Dean’s ear, then uses his tongue to pull the lobe in between his teeth. He gently worries it for a bit before letting go and bringing his lips back up to murmur, “We’re completely in the clear.” Now, Dean has been half-hard for the last minute or so, but the thought of finally being free from any possible rubberneckers has his dick standing at attention faster than a speeding bullet. He groans at the sudden rush of blood, and Sam actually has the gall to laugh. He glances down and rolls his hips against Dean’s before pulling back onto his knees. “Seriously? That’s what’s doing it for you?” 

“Shut the fuck up, Sam.” Dean’s poor dick has been through more than anyone should ever have to in the last couple weeks. He strains his body up against his brother’s, seeking out any friction. “I’ve been going out of my goddamned mind over all this shit,” he pants as he falls back against the bed. “Least you could do is stop teasing and give it up already.” 

Sam hums an assent and lowers himself again, grinding against Dean through his jeans. He thrusts his hips down, while lifting his head to scrape his teeth over Dean’s Adam’s apple. He soothes each spot afterwards with his tongue, then leans over to scrabble at Dean’s bedside drawer. Dean isn’t really paying much attention, he’s been fucking cock-blocked for what feels like forever and is taking the current opportunity to thrust up against as much of his brother as he can reach. Sam returns with the lube and tosses it onto the bed before going for Dean’s fly. He bites and tongues at Dean’s lower abdomen while fumbling with the button of his jeans. He finally gets them undone and unzipped, then tugs at the heavy material, wriggling them over Dean’s hips and drawing them down his legs. He gets a hand on Dean’s boxers right afterwards and yanks those off too.

Dean’s cock falls back against his belly and he takes a deep breath to calm himself down. He watches as Sam struggles with his own jeans—his huge hands more of a hindrance than a help when he’s this turned on. He gets them down over his long legs and Dean is met with a huge expanse of tanned skin, unbroken, save for the dark tattoo over his heart. Sam kicks off his jeans and underwear and clambers back over him. He clicks open the bottle of lube with a thumb and pours a generous amount over his fingers, rolling his palm before settling in between Dean’s thighs. He pushes one of Dean’s legs back and nips at a spot high on his inner thigh before bringing his hand down behind his balls and wiggling a slick finger inside. 

He jerks a bit. “Ah, Jesus that’s cold!”

Sam scoffs as he slides his finger in and out. “God, you’re such a baby.”

“How about you say that to my face, Sam?” 

His brother grins and lowers his head until he’s a whisper-stroke from Dean’s lips. “You. Are such. A _baby_.” He pushes a second finger in on the last word and Dean rocks his hips back into Sam’s hand. Sam scissors his fingers, stretching him out, and Dean bites back a groan. It’s good, _god_ it’s good, and Dean’s not sure how long he’s going to last considering his recent (reluctant) abstaining. Sam pumps his fingers for a while before finally adding a third. He’s staring at where his own hand is working into Dean and he’s got that half-glazed look in his eye, which means he’s crazy turned on. 

Dean feels Sam’s dick blurt out a pulse of pre-come against his thigh and he fucks himself down on his brother's hand. “Fuck it, I’m ready. C’mon.” He spans a hand over one of Sam’s biceps and tugs at him. “C’mon, Sammy.” 

Sam nods, still dazedly staring at the spread of Dean’s thighs. He licks his lips and shakes himself out of it, leaning up to press a long, hard kiss against Dean’s mouth, before slicking himself up. He closes his eyes and tilts his head back as he jerks himself, biting off a moan. It’s unfairly hot and Dean has to hold back an answering moan of his own. A smirk tugs at Sam’s mouth and he reaches out to stroke Dean a few times.

Oh _fuck_ that’sgood! Dean gasps and reaches out to still Sam’s hand. “Oh god. Bad idea, Sam.” His voice sounds wrecked and he takes a few deep breaths, then he grabs at Sam’s ass and smacks his bent knee against his side. “Would you fucking come on already?”

Sam beams like it’s ‘Take a Free Book Day’ at the local library and lines himself up against Dean’s hole. He pushes hard—and Dean knows he rushed it a bit, but fuck if he’s gonna last much longer—until the head finally breaks through. They both groan, and Dean hooks his leg around Sam’s waist and relaxes his muscles to get Sam’s cock in easier. Sam pushes the rest of his length in slowly, resting his forehead against Dean’s once he's taken him all the way to the root. Sam stays still for a bit. He’s got another one of those stupid earnest looks on his face, and Dean has to smack him to get him moving. Sam snorts and circles his hips, widening Dean a little more, before pulling back out in little shallow hitches. 

And _god_ , each shallow drag and tug adds fuel to the burning pool of lust in his belly. Dean clenches his fingers into the meat of his brother’s ass and pushes his foot against the bed for leverage. Sam has actually started moving now, driving his cock all the way in and out. Soon enough, he starts thrusting for real, and Dean’s breath is punched out of him on each go. “God, Sammy. C’mon.” He shoves his hips up to meet Sam’s. “ _Harder_.” He’s free and clear now. He’s been walking on eggshells for weeks and he’s done pussy-footing around. “Fuck me. C’mon!”

Sam doesn’t need to be asked twice. He twists his hands into the comforter, latches his teeth onto Dean’s shoulder, and slams his hips down on each thrust. His body is curved over Dean’s like a tightly-strung bow, and the wooden headboard keeps smashing into the wall. Good. Dean hopes Kevin thinks they’re building furniture in here. Sam fucks him brutally, driving in and out, and making little, cut-off, groaning noises with every pull. He angles his hips and—ohgod _there!_  Pleasure is zinging through Dean on every thrust and the tension is tightening in his whole body. He’s panting now, one leg wrapped around his brother and the other pushing him up to meet his hips. Sam shoves deep, and hard, all the way in, and Dean fucking loses it. He lets out a strangled cry and shoots all over his chest. Untouched. Gasping, as his muscles clench around Sam’s cock while he twitches through the aftershocks.

Sam chokes off a cry as Dean tightens around him and he pounds into Dean a few more times before following him over the edge. He falls down onto his elbows above Dean, looking for the world like he wants to collapse completely, but not wanting to fall into the pool of spunk on his brother’s chest. Which Dean thinks is hilarious. Sam hangs his head between his shoulders and a drop of sweat slips off of his brow to land on Dean’s collarbone. 

Dean takes a deep, satisfied breath—in and out—then flails his hand around for his shirt. Sam’s thrown Dean’s button up and both of his own shirts god-knows-where, but Dean’s pretty sure his t-shirt didn’t end up too far away. He manages to get a hand on it and uses it to wipe his chest clean before balling it up and tossing it at Sam’s head. His brother makes a disgusted sound at the contact and thrashes like a lunatic, trying to get it off his face. It’s maybe the funniest thing Dean’s seen in a month. 

Sam finally manages to wrench the soiled material away from him and daintily holds it away from his body. “Well, I’m glad _you’re_ laughing.” He flings it away from the bed and looks like he’s about to settle in for the night, which is not okay because the light’s still on. So Dean prods at him until he reluctantly gets up to flip it off. Sam finds his way back to the bed in the dark with minimal injury, slips under the covers, and then snuggles his head into Dean’s chest. He lies there for a blissfully peaceful second before insisting, “You’re done with the whole Kevin thing, right?” He tangles his legs with Dean’s. “Because you were driving me crazy.” 

Dean runs a hand through his brother’s sweaty hair and sighs. “Yeah, man. As long as it’s all good, I’m done with it.”

Sam makes a contented sound. “Good. I don’t know why you cared so much anyway. I’m pretty sure that Crowley knows.”

Well, that’s a creepy thought. Dean makes a face in the dark. Crowley had certainly made enough innuendos for that to be true. He supposes that if the King of Hell that they keep in their basement is imagining any pornographic scenarios, he's probably picturing Sam more than Dean. And that is a surprisingly comforting notion. “Crowley can suck a dick.”

Sam smiles and yawns into his shoulder. “Cas’s gotta know too. I don’t know why you made such a big deal over Kevin.”

Dean’s brain short-circuits and skips over a few synapses. “What?”

“What what?” 

Dean scrunches his neck down to try and get a glimpse of Sam’s face. It’s mostly painful. “Cas doesn’t know.”

Sam chuckles under his breath. “Yeah, dude. I’m pretty sure Cas knows. He was _God_ for like a month.” He yawns again and throws an arm over Dean’s waist. “Why aren’t you tired? Shut up and go to sleep.”

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

Dean lies there, silent and still as a stone for a very long while. Long enough for Sam’s breathing to even out into the steady rhythm of sleep. There was no way in _hell_ that Cas knew. No. _Fucking_. Way.  

…Right? 

Fuck Sam and his fucking bitch mouth.

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from Boston's "Peace of Mind"


End file.
